Setting out to find a new office space. Wearing a shirt after weeks. Istri, is of course, history.
The first place was an unmitigated disaster. As it always is. A way of the Real Estate Gods telling you that your budget was laughable. It was a good place for arty farty photography though.
The next place was still not where one you could bring your parents to with any degree of pride. Luckily I got something to recuperate.
The next place had a terrace one could step on to. I'm very partial to terraces. And a charming view of a rail yard. Something that would have normally have been a clincher. But the building still failed the proud parent test.
And then we saw the place we liked. It has a sea view from the meeting room. Something all Bombay buildings aspire for and only some achieve. It's a new building. Good lift. Parent test, check. An old friend of the office came to the window to check me out. I hope I passed.
If all goes well, we'd have found our fourth office in 14 years. We too, like many others, debated if we really need an office. And finally decided to downsize. We vacated our bigger office for somebody else to downsize to.
I'll keep you posted. Thank you for all the support.
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Fear the worst, the new CEO said, pronouncing both the r's. He spoke with an accent that did not try to mask his roots. He wore an ill fitting jacket and a poorly knotted tie. On his way up to the top tech job in the world, he didn't make any fashion pit stops. +
His face loomed on the giant screen in the auditorium. And on thousands of smaller screens watched live by minions around the globe. His annual speech had become an international media event. Bits of it would trend for weeks on social media. +
The myth of the elusive man, embellished by bits of apocrypha, would go viral. WhatsApp groups would buzz with fervent forwards. Till his sound bytes would be replaced by clips of the latest red carpet sensation, embellished by bits of fabric. +
There was something ineffably graceful about her. Him. Them. I don't know what her preferred pronoun was. Or if she even knew there is some such thing. I'll just use she/her. Because that feels right to me. +
She was almost always there at the SV Road signal when I drove to work. A quiet, dignified presence. There was always a hint of a smile on her powdered face. Just a subtle widening of her brightly lipsticked mouth. But genuine enough to travel to her eyes. Making them look kind.+
Even when she was a few cars away, I felt the tenderness of her expression. Maybe it had something to do with the laws of reflection. Light bounces off differently from a painted surface. She probably used a cheap foundation cream and even cheaper compact. +
I watch people. And study their habits. Like that guy at the next table who taps his cup twice after mixing sugar. Not once, not thrice. Always twice. That Dell kid who gets into his chair from the left and out from the right. +
That woman with the pink iPhone who picks all her calls after three rings. The guy who takes a picture of every coffee he has. The doorman who wipes the handle after every customer walks in. Covid habits die hard. +
Yes, I'm at a coffee shop. Not the famous one. But the nicer one with better food, better coffee, better chairs. But weaker wifi and smaller loo. I come here every Wednesday. At the same time, and follow the same routine. +
Here's a bunch of random pictures. Will try to run a thread through them. And try to hold your attention with trivia, wordplay, and banter while doing so. +
Most of you may have recognised three of the four images. And some geniuses, all four. The logo of Rolling Stones, a Phantom comic, Sacha Baron Cohen, and the toughie - the root of a mandrake plant. Aah! Many of you have probably got the basic connection. +
Lee Falk. The cool dude who created Phantom and Mandrake. He was a writer, director, producer, and cartoonist. He directed over a hundred plays featuring actors including Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Charlton Heston, Ethel Waters, and Chico Marx. (All wikipedia gyan, not mine.) +
Today is a good day to tell you the story of how my 85 year old grandmother helped us win the IPL. I will not tell you which edition it was. I am sworn to secrecy. +
I was on the bench the entire season. I didn't play a single match. I fielded as a substitute, for a couple of overs in our tenth game. I took a catch and saved 7, maybe 8, runs. I didn't get picked at the auctions ever again. But it was my paati who helped us lift the trophy.+
I should probably go back to where this story starts. My childhood. I was a habitual liar. And a really good one. My amma and appa could never spot my fibs. And I got away with a lot of stuff. +
Everybody hated the old bastard. That he was wheelchair-bound made no difference. He was a cantankerous, foul mouthed, ill tempered, misshapen bundle of vitriol. +
When he was found dead, slumped over his lap, held back only by the belt of his wheelchair, there was a collective unreleased sigh of relief. Even from his own family.+
He used to sit all day in front of his ground floor flat, in the little patch of garden that he usurped from the society. He had an unkind word for everyone - from the watchman to the drivers to the kids who played in the yard to the delivery boys.+